there are rules in poetry she smirks
before shredding my work into
tiny tendrils of yearning
words that trail along the floor
and drip
               from
                       her
                            red
                                  fingertips
words that had once so courageously
parachuted from my own dull digits
out into
              a
                 brave
                           new
                                   world
 
it lacks rhythm
and your meter is invisible
do you understand verse at all
or do you just put words on paper
it reeks of desperation
what are you trying to accomplish
do
you
know
do
you
care
 
she walks away
her backside swaying in the rhythm
that she swears my words
do not have
do not feel
do not hear
 
but they do
and they burn with ferocity
until hungrily charging forth
in laborious aching bursts of pulsing panic
and need and love
and regret
                  tinged 
                             with 
                                    terror
 
they are real and mine and not designed to titillate her
or abide by her
rules
they just want to be
ephemera
                  on a page
                                   in black and white
small squiggles of tortured ramblings on terrified topography

now hateful assassin 
here lie your victims
scattered about me
tattered and ragged
and strewn on the floor
 
i stoop to scoop the torn pieces
retrieve those lost soldiers
perform some mad magic in a high tower
resurrection revision
sew parts together from other failed troopers
chant incantations and offer up prayers
but Pompeii has fallen
Jerasalem burned

broken and bruised
words barely tremble
prone in my palms
they lie numbly forlorn
but in the dim corner
a whispering window
struggles against 
wintry moans

lifting the latch
i throw the panes open
and toss each word
into
the
bone-piercing
chill
borne up with snowflakes
swirling and sailing
those once valiant soldiers soon disappear
cast to the heavens
away fly the chosen
now finally victims
of all that i lack